


Impetus

by scullyseviltwin



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, M/M, Post S4, bed sharing but not like normal bed sharing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-06
Updated: 2018-09-06
Packaged: 2019-07-07 21:12:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15916344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scullyseviltwin/pseuds/scullyseviltwin
Summary: “We going to do this properly, then?”“Properly?” Sherlock parrots, a coy little smile touching his mouth.John aims for aloof, licks his lips and poses, “Date, I mean. We’ve got a candle, wine…”“If that’s all that’s required for a date, I’d say we had our first at Angelo’s years ago.”





	Impetus

**Author's Note:**

> My utmost thanks to Erin, Lediona, Emy and Amanda, for dealing with this hot mess of words for much longer than I'd intended.

It’s forecasted to be the first pleasant bank holiday of the year and the Welsh countryside is crawling with locals and tourists alike, just itching for a much-anticipated glimpse of spring sunlight. The land beginning to turn green—spring green—the sort of hue that makes your eyes squint as though they’re processing color for the very first time. Families with young children run roughshod over the fledgling, mossy spaces, and couples stroll along the recently-hewn asphalt pathways, dodging puddles. 

Sherlock had taken this case—a seven, not normally enough to get them on a train headed north—without much fanfare, on the possibility of connecting a decades-old cold case to a recent slaying. He hadn’t admitted it aloud, but then he hadn’t needed to, that this was a chance to get out, away, just the two of them.

John had been relieved; he loves his daughter, but he had been missing the quiet intimacy they’d shared before on trips away. Dinners together, morning coffee in one another’s rooms as they examined case files; even sitting next to one another in a stuffy train car had been a treat for John, something exciting to look forward to. It was in those moments that he’d allow himself to get caught up in a fantasy, that they were going away together simply for the pleasure of it, because they wanted to be alone, and not for work.

 

Those days away together, alone save for the case, were something John craved so viscerally that he was nearly embarrassed by it. 

So when Sherlock had announced the case—absolutely no room for argument, they were going—John had grabbed his laptop, booking them coach tickets and a rental car. Sherlock had insisted he’d find lodging for them, as he was by far the pickier of the two, and didn’t “trust” John’s taste level to make an adequate selection.

“John,” Sherlock had said, derision so thick it was nearly visible in the air between them. “You tend to gravitate towards descriptors like rustic and sweet and we’re likely to end up in a barn. The idea of you picking a room for us is actually quite anxiety-producing.”

Of course he’d then forgotten.

Now, they’re in the position of requesting a booking on-site, which John knows from the get-go won’t work in their favor when attempting to book two rooms. The sheer number of people that had been on hand when they arrived made the inn, which had been described on the chamber of commerce website as “a relaxing sojourn far from your troubles”, seem into something more like a carnival. 

Therefore, John isn’t surprised that there’s only one room left at the inn, though it does set the nerves in his stomach aflutter. He’s also not surprised that it doesn’t even cross Sherlock’s mind not to take the single room when it is offered to him.

He has a bit of an out-of-body experience as Sherlock slides his Black Card across the fashionably-distressed check-in desk, the clerk’s eyes flicking between the card and Sherlock’s face. The man behind the desk throws a knowing smile John’s way, and he finds himself doing nothing more than giving a small, resigned sigh.

Fantastic, someone who recognizes them; John wonders how quickly news of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson sharing a quaint, boutique room in the countryside will take to make it into the blogosphere. A thought like this would have annoyed him, before. Now, he can barely pay it any mind, for the idea of he and Sherlock sharing quarters is a much more pressing thought.

This, John realizes, could very well be it, the impetus to move them past the amorphous roadblock they’ve been lingering behind. A thrill runs through him at the thought, at all of the possibilities that the upcoming evening could hold. 

Now, when the clerk winks at John, John just smiles back, waiting until Sherlock sees his reaction before hefting his bag over his arm. 

Sherlock says nothing in regard to the fact that they’ll be sharing a room, just shifts his duffle higher on his shoulder and says, “Room twelve,” and starts off, leaving John to follow behind—and he does just that.

\---

Their shoes crunch over the uneven gravel as they make their way down the lane to the quaint, stone building where their room is located. Sherlock glances back at him only once, expression somehow delighted and a tad bashful all at once. It’s an odd look on him, and one that John’s only seen once or twice before. 

It makes John’s insides swim in an anticipation that he can’t place. Sharing a bed, between the two of them. Once it might have set him into a frenzy of anxiety; now, it’s something he finds he’s nervously looking forward to. Perhaps this is just the little shove they need to take a solid step over the line they’ve been edging so carefully towards. 

It feels so strange, to share this between them now. A thread of something they haven’t named, but something so obvious to the both of them, that’s it’s becoming too much to leave unspoken and unexplored.

Falling in love with Sherlock Holmes had been so incredibly simple. It was so natural that he was unable to recall just how it happened. He realized that it had been there all along, slowly enveloping him in its glow. How he yearned to touch the skin of Sherlock’s neck above the collar of his pajama top; he wanted to explain how desperately he wanted to know the contents of Sherlock’s heart and to allow his own heart to spill open before Sherlock. The desire to give word and touch to his love was almost painful in strength.

Once he’d realized the depth of his feelings, figuring out how to live with unrequited love was an impossible endeavor, one that was steadily wearing away at him, making him brittle with impatience. Every day it feels as though he’s slowly suffocating, drawn under by the weight of his wanting. For a man of action, John isn’t at all sure how to proceed. 

 

They sidestep a family, two men swinging a toddler between their outstretched arms, the boy giggling, the men grinning down. It’s such a perfect little tableau, so well-timed that John thinks that the universe may just be out for him today. 

John glances up just in time to see the sweet smile smooth away from Sherlock’s face. In a flash he’s thinking of the last time Sherlock had held Rosie, tossing her into the air as her screeching giggles filled the whole of 221B, catching her briefly before throwing her into the air once more. “Higher, Shar! Higher!” she squeaked and Sherlock, someone who vehemently denied having any sort of sentimental leanings, just rolled his eyes and indulged her. 

It had made John’s heart cleave. And in that moment, he’d wanted, more than ever before, to be really together, finally. 

It’s an easy trip from that realization to imagining long Sundays warm in bed with Rosie situated between them, dinners out that are fraught with tension and end in tender lovemaking, days spent marinating in the knowledge of their shared feelings, doing nothing at all in particular. 

It guts him when he pulls himself from the sweetly deceptive thoughts. 

It’s far too easy to get caught up in the daydreams and to ignore the fact that they still face the journey of getting to that eventuality. Though there are some moments of ambiguity, John is nearly positive—somehow, deep in his bones, he knows, of course he does, Sherlock is his best friend—that Sherlock will reciprocate John’s long-simmering feelings and desires. 

It has occurred to John, somewhere between Sherlock dying and his subsequent return, that he should just call it was it is: he had been, and still is, desperately and endlessly in love with Sherlock, the best man he’s ever met. Proper, horrible, marrow-deep love. Not a surprise, really, as he’d warmed up to and accepted that truth for all of its intricacies and obstacles, amorphous and not. 

And he carried it with him, all the while. Two years of living with memories of a ghost, with self-flagellation, with might-have-beens, dear-god-I-wish-had-beens, and he’d moved on as best he was able, right into another tsunami of danger, a danger whose claws wished to sink into him and tear him away from Sherlock.

And through it all, through the proposal and marriage, through the Rosie’s birth, through all of the life-altering events both good and bad, he’d loved Sherlock Holmes. And it’s all mirrored back at him in Sherlock’s eyes, the way he holds himself, the way he speaks. 

Sherlock hasn’t been able to mask his emotions as well as he had before he took the tumble off of Bart’s. He’s more human, more raw. He allows himself to speak of things that he never had before -- family, friends, death, his addiction. It’s not that he’s an entirely different person, but he is shedding some of the carefully-suited armor he’d developed over the years. The exoskeleton of indifference and indestructibility has been flaking away. 

While they are both more human than either of them really wants to admit, it seems to John as though they’ve realised that they don’t need to hide from one another any longer. It’s equally refreshing and terrifying, as though they’re standing together on the edge of a cliff.

They should be moving towards something, making some sort of notable progress, but in the wake of Mary’s death and the whirlwind of raising a toddler, it’s been difficult. He’s not immune to the way Sherlock looks at him, has always looked at him, staring with longing eyes. Whereas before, he’d divert his eyes and pass it off as nothing, but now when John catches him, Sherlock doesn’t hide it, doesn’t try to look away, his emotions flitting across his face, tempting and reckless.

“Lovely morning,” Sherlock says as they round a stone cottage and spy the building with their room in the distance, bringing John back to the present. 

“Hmmm.” It’s the only way John can respond, his mind too full with everything to form a coherent sentence. He can feel Sherlock’s gaze on him for a moment, but doesn’t dare engage, knows that everything he’s feeling is written all over his damned face. 

It’s frustrating, this stagnation, but he doesn’t know how to proceed, doesn’t know how to spur them forward. The words form in his mind, but he never seems able to speak them. The onus shouldn’t be on Sherlock alone, but John finds it very nearly incapacitating, the fear of speaking his love to the one person he cannot bear to lose. He’s never understood this, how he can be so free and open about dating, about sex, but how love absolutely terrifies him, even being aware of how Sherlock feels. Perhaps, John grants, it’s the idea of everything changing, the life they’ve so carefully built and rebuilt, destroyed and repaired, changing once again. 

But they’ve weathered horrible things, violent deaths, utter despair; how can John really believe that admitting his love would cause them further pain? It’s ridiculous. They’re being entirely ridiculous, and they should just damned-well do something about this. 

“Hey,” John says, stepping alongside Sherlock, close enough that he can feel the heat from Sherlock’s body. 

He glances up at Sherlock and something shifts, solidifies. It’s startling, unnerving in a lovely way, and John knows as surely as he’s known anything, that he can do this. 

“Okay?” John breathes, eyes never leaving Sherlock’s gaze.

Sherlock shifts infinitesimally closer as they reach the door. “Absolutely never better.”

\---

The room is lovely, rustic in a modern sort of way. There’s a large window that overlooks the back garden, a well-appointed bathroom, and a queen-sized bed. There is also, John notes, a rather opulent sleeper sofa situated on the far wall, whose presence feels like a betrayal.

His warring feelings of overwhelming affection and rightful fear coalesce to make him wish the sleeper sofa wasn’t in the room at all. The queen bed might have been enough of a catalyst to spur thought and desire to action, but John can only anticipate the gentle back-and-forth of determining who will take the sofa and who will take the bed. It’s a convenient excuse to ignore the very real tension that has been full-to-bursting between them.

Sherlock doesn’t speak, makes no mention of their inevitable sleeping arrangements, and sets his case down on the small desk in order to unzip it. They briefly unpack their things, confirm the location of the constable they’ll be meeting, and then they’re off for a day of scanning old interview notes, reviewing evidence logs and investigating timelines of all persons of interest. John is pleased that Sherlock now takes the time to sit with him and that their duties are now more formally shared.

They sit across the table from one another, cups of tepid but strong coffee at their elbows, sharing their findings in hushed academic tones. It’s nearly intimate—the shuffle of paper, a quietly-uttered “Hm, look at this,” the passing of files, fingertips brushing in a way that would have been absolutely innocent if there hadn’t been years of similar, sought-after touches in their shared history. 

Their perusal of the case reveals nothing solid or illuminating, but does serve to update them on the nuances and circumstances related to the first death. Sherlock has pages of scribbled notes and John makes photocopies of several items of interest. When they leave the constabulary, it’s rapidly approaching dusk and a chilly wind has kicked up, doing nothing to deter the throngs of people wandering the town. 

He suggests dinner, finding it easy to slip into the fantasy that they’re on holiday together. They’re a couple, going about their evening as any other couple would. 

Their feet crunch over the fine gravel and they wander side-by-side into the heart of town, a silence borne of a decade of friendship settling comfortably between them. John steals a glance, noting the way the tendrils of sunset that have found their way between low clouds cause Sherlock’s hair to light almost neon purple; it’s a poetic thought, and John rebukes himself for it momentarily, before giving in and glancing over again. 

Sherlock looks ridiculous, and charming, and John looks away only after Sherlock catches him watching.

They find a tavern with a short waitlist and sidle up to the bar. Dark wood and low beams make for a shadowy space, the history of the place closing in around them, and John has to squint to read the list of draughts. Sherlock grabs it from him before he’s finished, unsurprisingly.

“Two Oxymorons,” Sherlock directs at the barkeep, placing the list back between a bottle of vinegar and a salt and pepper shaker. Sherlock folds his hands atop the bar and turns to grace John with a soft smile. He looks almost tired, perhaps weary, but the smile is genuine, reaches his eyes in that delightful way that somehow manages to make Sherlock look decades younger.

It is, without a doubt, one of John’s favorite expressions, and never fails to make him feel perfectly warm. It’s a feeling that lends such credence and such clarity to their situation, that John sighs, licks his lips in an attempt to bring moisture to his parched mouth. “Sherlock—”

Sherlock's brows perk and he takes a quick sip of air, and John knows he's holding his breath, a nervous tick he's observed in Sherlock before. It’s a tick-—John has learned-that Sherlock has, when he’s nervous. An inhale to steel himself for an inevitability.

John is spurred on by that fact that he knows these things about Sherlock Holmes, these secret, intimate, idiosyncratic things. It’s what he needs, a little nudge towards that cliff’s edge. “Do you think—”

He’s interrupted by their beers being placed before them with a soft thuank of glass on wood. Sherlock doesn’t turn away from John, doesn’t acknowledge the bartender, just tilts his head and waits for John to continue. Instead, John reaches for his beer and takes a short pull on it; Sherlock blinks, his eyes briefly shading into something like disappointment, before he does the same. 

They sit in a silence now tinged with anxiety, John feeling entirely thwarted, silently condemning the bartender to a whole host of maladies. There’s something inside him that feels ashamed for being so frightened of all of this, after everything he’s experienced. How overcoming his fear of allowing Sherlock to know the contents of his heart make no sense to him; mentally, his gives credit to Ella, specifically for having to deal with the fucked up inner workings of his psyche. 

For a long while, they sit and drink their beers in silence. Sherlock finishes his and then clears his throat, his thumbs trailing up and down his empty glass. “Like the Oxymoron, then?” 

John chuckles, grateful that the stasis is broken. “You knew I would.”

Sherlock smiles at John, and then directs his gaze down at the bar. “Yes. That and the name amused me.”

“You know—” John waits while two new pints are placed before them, giving the bartender a smile in thanks before turn his attention wholly back to Sherlock. He turns his body, too, knees just centimeters away from Sherlock’s thigh. “You know everything. About me.”

Sherlock takes a breath and then lifts his gaze, glances over his shoulder at John. “No,” he says, voice low and melancholic. “Not everything.”

John holds Sherlock’s gaze for a long, long moment before he sits up a bit straighter, sandwiching his fingers between his knees and clearing his throat, not wanting to lose this chance to lay it all out there. “It’s too bad that there isn’t a sleeper sofa in our room, innit?”

It’s a half-gesture, John proposing and leaving Sherlock to accept or deny. He presses his lips together, waiting for Sherlock to reply now that the metaphorical ball is solidly in his court.

Sherlock’s eyes cloud for a moment, fill with something John can’t place. He doesn’t look away from John for a long while, but then turns his gaze back forward, across the bar. “I’m not bothered, though I sincerely hope you don’t snore.”

And that’s all John needs to hear, and the painfully corseted feeling in his ribs gives way to something lighter than air. He laughs, reins himself in with a hum and reaches out to squeeze Sherlock’s arm so hard that his knuckles turn white. 

Sherlock’s mouth lifts in a smile, something safe and private; John can see the weight gone from him now, too, see how he leans into John’s touch, releases a heavy breath that sounds like it’s been held for ages and ages. “Now, that wasn’t so terrifying,” Sherlock claims, and shifts around so that his right knee is just against John’s left.

“Bloody hell, yes, it was,” John exclaims, laughing. 

Sherlock chuckles as well and they’re left staring at one another. John can read a number of things in Sherlock’s expression: relief, delight, whimsy, longing, and something else that makes John’s stomach somersault: desire. He hopes that Sherlock can see all of that in him, too, and so he grins, elation making him feel buoyant and unstoppable. 

Sherlock’s mouth opens to speak, but he stops as a woman steps up, letting them know that their table is ready. Sherlock steps in front, leading as always, and John steps behind him, thrilled to place his fingers just barely at the small of Sherlock’s back. It’s such a casually intimate gesture it makes John’s breath stutter for a moment as he glances down at the pads of his fingers where they brush the expensive silk of Sherlock’s suit jacket.

It’s a disappointment when they reach their table and John’s hand falls away as they sit down. They’re seated at a small, wobbly table sandwiched between an enormous, empty brick fireplace and faux-weathered picture window. Sherlock takes a stick of chewing gum from his pocket, folds it in half and bends to secure it beneath the table leg, his curls nearly catching fire from the small candle situated towards the outer edge. John snatches it away, and Sherlock glances up in surprise. 

When he rights himself, Sherlock smiles at John who feels as though his face might well split in two from the force of his grin. “So,” John says, drawing out the ‘o’ in rather dramatic fashion. A comfortable buffer of silence settles around them, the din of the other diners low enough that their position feels intimate. “That’s it, then? Years of sitting on all of this and…”

“Hmmm,” Sherlock toys with his fork, turning it this way and that, the both of them focusing their attention on the movement of the utensil. Another long beat of quiet stretches between them, welcome and unhurried. “There are plenty of things that need saying. Though, I should remind you that I’m not well-versed in how these matters… proceed.” Sherlock’s gaze lifts to John’s once more, the flickering light of the candle making his irises glitter, very-nearly twinkle. 

“Ah,” John says, understanding, though is halted from further speech by Sherlock’s interruption. 

Sherlock’s hands fold primly on the table before him, and he clears his throat quiet daintily before speaking. “For instance, does one simply lay out the exact minutes, hours, days, since realizing one is so deeply in love with someone, right at the table?” Sherlock allows the words to land, allows John to hear them, leans in so that their heads are closer together, never breaks eye contact. They’re both breathless and stunned by the frank confessions that it feels like a blessing when Sherlock breaks the tension, “Does one wait to order wine to say all of that, or is that better confessed prior to?”

John barks a laugh, and tips his head back with the ludicrosity of it all; a chuckle, and then another escape. When he looks back at Sherlock, he’s wearing an expression of such unguarded happiness that John’s breath stops, caught on not wanting the moment to end. 

“And,” Sherlock shrugs, blanketing his lap in a cloth napkin, appearing so nonchalant that John is on tenterhooks, anticipating what Sherlock’s about to say. “Would this then be the proper moment for you to share something similar?”

John doesn’t waste a second, feels the words pressing at the seam of his lips, wanting to be exposed, to be shouted. 

“Yeah, I’m not great at timing but I’d say now is a good time to tell you that—” John licks his lips and places both hands against the lip of the table. He looks down at his hands, swallows thickly. “I do. Love you. I am… in love with you. I think yeah, now would be the proper time to say it.” 

John sucks in a breath and is astounded that he feels as though he might cry. Tipping his head back, he glances up at the ceiling, but doesn’t want Sherlock for one moment to get the impression that he’s avoiding any of this. “Oh jesus christ, it’s been years. Years, Sherlock, I swear… I’m sure you’ve counted. I know you have, all I know is that it’s been… forever. I can’t remember a time when I didn’t.”

Sherlock licks his lips and his gaze falls to where his hands are resting on the table. “John…”

“I wish things had been different, I wish I’d said something ages ago—”

“You’ve said something now,” Sherlock murmurs, regaining eye contact. “You were the brave one. I’m… very glad for it.”

They haven’t even glanced at the menus, and when their waitress introduces herself, Sherlock asks for a few more moments, but orders a bottle of wine, seemingly off-the-cuff.

John’s mouth flickers in a half-smile, “We going to do this properly, then?”

“Properly?” Sherlock parrots, a coy little smile touching his mouth.

John aims for aloof, licks his lips and poses, “Date, I mean. We’ve got a candle, wine…”

“If that’s all that’s required for a date, I’d say we had our first at Angelo’s years ago.”

“Sure, but there wasn’t the prospect of me taking you home afterward,” John jokes, realizing a moment too late that perhaps he should skirt the issue of sex for a bit, let them get accustomed to everything that’s been said. 

There’s something that lights in Sherlock’s eyes, something that seems almost dangerous. John takes a moment to work out exactly what’s being held there, and is unnerved and thrilled to find that it’s unguarded lust. It’s a striking look on Sherlock, colours his cheeks the slightest bit pink; John finds his mouth goes a bit dry just witnessing it.

The waitress returns with a bottle of wine in hand, presenting it for Sherlock’s judgment. She uncorks it and lets him have a taste, and once he deems it acceptable, two glasses are poured and placed before them. 

John lifts his glass to Sherlock’s in a silent toast, no words necessary, and they both take a long sip.

“I believe that I took you home,” Sherlock rumbles after a moment, jostling his leg against John’s. John giggles, tilting his head in agreement. 

Sherlock hums, looks out across the restaurant for a long moment, before returning his attention to their table. “Is there—” Sherlock starts haltingly mentions, running his forefinger along the stem of the glass; he’s a bit off-kilter, and it’s very apparent in the way he pauses, the way his voice wavers ever-so, but he recovers, “—the possibility of that tonight? You... taking me home?” Their gazes lock, the intimacy ratcheting up immensely. 

John is quiet, the stem of his wine glass situated in the vee of his fore and middle fingers and he drags it slowly back and forth across the table. He inhales and sits back a bit, “Is that something you want?”

Sherlock’s tongue peeks out to wet his lips, and he sighs, taking another sip of his wine before leaning across the table, almost conspiratorially. It makes John nervous; Sherlock’s intent to admit something important is quite clear. His voice is low and helpless when he says, “I don’t know how to do this, John.”

“You think I do?” he counters, immediately. And Sherlock might think John knows how to navigate this, but this is completely uncharted. “I don’t… I’ve never done this. Something this… important. With someone I...” John emits a heavy sigh, shrugs. “I think we’re doing alright so far, best as able. Don’t you?”

Sherlock blinks, the light from the candle shading his face in greys. There’s something there and they wait, suspended in time. Then John feels Sherlock’s calf settle against his beneath the table; it’s the easiest thing in the world to reach across the table and place his palm over Sherlock’s hand and it seems to prompt the ensuing confession out of him. “I want you, John. In every conceivable meaning of the word. You understand that, don’t you?”

The flicker that had been warm in John’s belly flares to life. “I do now, yeah.” He’s knocked breathless, the fingers not resting against Sherlock’s skin press into the table as he attempts to reign in the rapidly-spreading desire that courses through him. It wouldn’t do to get hard at the table. “Yeah, yeah… I… Jesus, Sherlock.” His mouth moves, and he hears the words, but he feels disconnected and blown to the four corners of the earth. After years of yearning and waiting, the deluge of what’s happening between them right now is a typhoon. “Me too.”

“You too.” There’s a lingering hint of amusement in his tone, and John realises belatedly, working through the fog of lust that’s suddenly encompassed him, he’s being teased. 

Shaking his head, John folds back into his chair, pulling gently away and chuckling. “You absolute dick, yes,” John laughs, leans forward again to make his point. “I want you, too.”

“Good,” Sherlock sniffs and sits back, satisfied.

“A lot,” John says for good measure, angling a look at Sherlock over the rim of his wine glass. 

Sherlock makes a show of dragging his gaze up and down John’s body in such an overtly lascivious way that it sends John into a fit of laughter. Sherlock joins in a moment later, petering out as he places his hand atop the table, face up. John doesn’t hesitate, slips his palm against Sherlock’s and squeezes, it’s such a delightfully easy thing to do, and John finds himself shocked that it’d been this simple, after ages of worrying over it. This is beyond anything he could have hoped for: a gentle confession, laughter, ease.

It is, as ever, just the two of them, and the very last of John’s worries flake away. He shouldn’t have been scared to face the person whose held his heart so carefully for so long.

And he certainly shouldn’t be afraid, now, staring down the barrel of a very real and proper date with Sherlock Holmes. 

“Should we…” John finds himself licking his lips and giving Sherlock a very slow once over, so that there’s no mistaking his intentions. He watches as Sherlock swallows, his mouth to peeking open, something like expectation lingering in the movement.

“...eat?” John finishes, dipping his head as he feels a slow grin slide up on his lips. He’s enjoying this slow, syrupy heat that’s settling in his stomach; he’s delighting in savoring this sweet burn. 

“Boring,” Sherlock says, breathily, rolls his eyes and snatches up his menu anyway, startling a pleased chuckle out of John.

\---

For Sherlock’s insistence that food isn’t something that his body requires, John is aware that Sherlock actually loves fine food, so it’s not surprising when he tucks into his lamb without a word. John only picks at his salmon, too preoccupied with keeping his focus on Sherlock, the way his fingers hold his fork, the way he chews, dabs at his mouth with his napkin. He moves with the same mechanical precision as usual, but John watches for differences. Because everything is different now, isn’t it?

They chat in the same manner that they always have over dinner, Sherlock making mention of more salient aspects of the case, John digesting and rearranging facts in his own head. They chat about Rosie, about how cross she’ll be when she has to leave Nana Hudson’s and go back home.

He does what he can to live up to the expectation of a first date with his best friend, but the slow buzz of the knowledge that they will be sharing a bed keeps pulling his attention to darker, more salacious corners of his mind. 

He can’t really eat, not with the prospect of touching Sherlock’s skin on the very-near horizon. How can he do anything at all, anticipating peeling Sherlock out of his clothes, pressing their mouths together, taking Sherlock’s cock in hand?

“Hmm?” he hums a moment later, pulled from his thoughts by Sherlock calling his name, firmly.

He’s wearing an amused expression as he nods towards John’s dinner. “At the risk of sounding positively indecent, you should eat your dinner. You’re going to need your stamina.” His eyebrows waggle comically and John’s never felt so positively lit up before. 

John chokes on a huffed laugh, the half-formed idea of what Sherlock’s naked hips might feel like fit into his palms evaporates. “Okay, that was… bad.”

Sherlock smiles, wickedly. “Yes, it was. Now eat.” He points at John’s dish with his fork and then goes a step further, snatching a piece of fish before John can even pick up his own utensils. 

“Oi!” John tries to smack at his hand but isn’t fast enough. “How is it,” he deadpans, spearing a haricot vert. 

“Delicious,” Sherlock says through a full mouth-cheeky-and then grins. “Eat up.”

\---

They finish the bottle of wine, Sherlock pays the tab, and they exit the restaurant together into a chilly evening. The bed and breakfast is a bit of an amble away, and John feels anticipation in every step he takes.

“So…”

“So?”

“As first dates go, how was it?” John asks, shrugging inside of his light spring coat, his hands itching to reach across and snatch up Sherlock’s. He doesn’t.

“Hmmm, acceptable,” Sherlock says, and at the look that crosses John’s face, he continues, “Bit preoccupied with what happens after the date.” He clips the ‘t’ hard, as he might when having a bit of a go at someone, but John is aware that the tic extends to the few times his nerves get the best of him.

Sherlock is rarely genuinely flirty, and so John is caught off guard by it, feels like he’s being buffeted by some unseen wind. Regardless, it delights him, this so-clearly open and anticipatory Sherlock. This person whose heart he’s so carefully guarded for years now, is making it plain that he too has been guarding John’s heart in turn.

This love he holds for Sherlock is a quietly-expanding miracle, one that is unfurling in his chest. It’s infinitely exhilarating and new, the carrying of this knowledge back to their room and John is glad that he can tell Sherlock is feeling similarly. It’s a bizarre miasma inside of him, feeling intently right, even, and whole, and entirely on edge from the suspense of discovering what Sherlock looks like, sounds like, spread beneath him in a bed. 

It’s an inevitability to be sure, but the unknown lingers. How will they be, together?

They make their way down the gravel lane, unhurried, the knowledge of what they both hope to take place tonight causing them to slip into their own thoughts. The side of Sherlock’s hand bumps John’s once, and again. The next time it happens, Sherlock’s pinky finger hooks around John’s and holds.

Their joined digits swing along between them, before Sherlock relaxes and leaves John’s hand to flutter happily back to his side.

 

\---

There’s nothing hurried when they enter their shared room. Sherlock slips out of his suit jacket and unbuttons the cuffs at his wrists while John toes off his loafers, manuevering them to neatness by the door. It would be a night like any other, getting ready to retire for the evening, if there wasn’t such purpose in the way Sherlock stands before him.

Sherlock saunters up to him, a small smile blooming into something larger, and his palms find John’s hips, pulling him gently into his arms.

“Is it cliche to tell you I’ve thought about kissing you for positively ages?”

It’s such a line, and John relaxes from the absurdity of it coming from Sherlock’s mouth, realizing belatedly that he’d been a touch nervous.

“Maybe stop talking and do it,” John challenges and Sherlock does, angles his lips against John’s and their mouths open, easily, and there’s nothing chaste about it. Sherlock’s fingers dig into John’s hip and John shuffles closer, his hands reaching to slip and tangle in Sherlock’s hair. 

It’s as easy as that, their first kiss becomes their second and third. 

John meets Sherlock’s purpose, allowing his bottom lip to settle between both of Sherlock’s. He allows Sherlock a moment to lead before he turns it a bit filthier, pressing wet kisses against Sherlock’s jaw, and just beneath. Sherlock grants him access, his head lolling against his shoulders. 

He’s a little lightheaded, as the reality filters all the way past the haze that their passion has created in his mind, the fact that he’s finally able to express to Sherlock exactly what he feels. With his body, with his mouth, he can finally set all of his demons and caution aside and allow himself to love Sherlock, properly. 

John’s pelvis can’t help tipping forward, seeking pressure, like he might have done when he was sixteen. But he wants it so very badly that his body moves of its own accord, pressing himself up against Sherlock as close as he’s able while their mouths still move against one another. It’s a gasping, messy, tangled thing, and a few moments in, John realises that they’re pawing at one another quite like the randy teenager he’d just imagined.

Head tipping back, he sucks in a breath, and laughs; the laugh turns to a moan as Sherlock hums and follows the arc of John’s head, tips forward, and gently suckles at John’s carotid. 

John’s hands flutter in a sort of flail, first against Sherlock’s back and then find themselves up in his slippery hair once more, tugging back, as to get Sherlock away from him for a moment. But Sherlock just lavishes in the tug, groans, and bites at John’s skin.

John’s breath gusts out of his chest as though punched hard in the gut. 

“Jesus, okay, filing hair pulling away for later, then,” John says, and wrestles with Sherlock until he manages to get his hands on the flies of his trousers. 

It occurs to him that his brain is caught up in a bit of a whirlwind, his heart hammering so fast he feels as though he might waver a bit. This is something he’s been waiting for—they’ve both been waiting for, so elusive—for eons that he doesn’t want to rush through. They have all night, really, alone. Together. They deserve it, to allow themselves the time to experience one another without hurry.

If this had happened years ago, back before they’d become so completely entwined, John might have been fine with the idea that they race towards mutual orgasm, just to know. But there’s a need he has to allow Sherlock to understand and experience how deeply John cares for him.

“Hey,” John huffs out, feeling his blood simmering, “I, uh, can we slow down?” John manages shakily, glancing up at Sherlock briefly; he slows the hands that are working Sherlock out of his clothing, tempering himself. His hands instead fall to the curve of Sherlock’s hips and hold. 

 

Sherlock stills entirely, blinking silently at John. When it’s apparent that Sherlock isn’t following the thread of John’s own thought, he explains, “Want to, you know, savor this.”

Sherlock tips his head back, silent for a moment. His right brow quirks in a perfect curve, “Savor it?” Sherlock asks with a note of genuine confusion in his tone, stepping away from John.

John shakes his empty hands at his sides, bringing himself back under control. “Just because I want to get you naked doesn’t mean that I want us to just... “

“Just?” Sherlock asks, and then presses in again, bending at the waist, catching John’s mouth in another, sloppy kiss. 

John pushes him half-heartedly away with a playful shove, a flicker of his eyebrows as a challenge, “You want to come in your pants?”

Sherlock looks chastened and a bit embarrassed, a sweet pink tinging his cheeks. “No,” he drawls, slow and playful, hooking one of his index fingers into a belt loop on John’s jeans.

John laughs, a deep bark and grins at Sherlock, shakes his head, disbelieving. He sighs happily, shakes his head in wonder, “Didn’t think you’d be this playful.”

“No?” Sherlock asks and then pivots around John, en route to the bed, but stops briefly to swat lightly at John’s arse.

It fills John with a sweet, buoyant glee, at how uninhibited and ridiculous Sherlock is being. 

John turns on his heel and takes in Sherlock, hopping up and back onto the bed, bouncing with the force of his efforts. “Not bad,” he says, patting the mattress next to his hip. “Good lumbar support.”

John’s tongue touches his upper lip for a moment and he’s completely still, taking a breath, allowing himself a moment to acknowledge that all of this will firmly be in the “before Sherlock and I made love” portion of his life. He watches Sherlock–-pink cheeked and adorably ruffled—watch him.

There’s nothing to hide now; he feels wonderfully flayed, open and free. The realization of their mutual, devastating feelings for one another so real and tacit. 

Breathtaking.

John allows it to settle in his bones, overtake every sense he has. 

Still. 

Then he’s moving with express purpose. John crosses to the bed and sits astride the edge, reaches for Sherlock just as Sherlock is reaching for him. It’s a fumble, a messy meeting of lips and John laughs into it, Sherlock’s tongue sweeping in, swiping at him. There is restraint vibrating between the two of them as they fall into a languid push and pull. 

Hips are twisted at odd angles, and John is half on the bed and half off, but his mind whites out as his hands find themselves at Sherlock’s hips once more, trousers loose, but still he waits.

This is the human, the only one, that he trusts implicitly. This is the best, truest, most remarkable man he’s ever met. This is the person who he knew from the very start would be remarkable. This is the person that he marked as a best friend. This is his person, John realises hazily. 

This is his person.

John feels everything, intensely, all at once. All of his wants finally being realised, Christmas morning but ten times better, the realization that he’s about to love the man he’s loved for ages with his body. It’s heady and gorgeous and some distant part of his mind wishes he could slow this all down, take ages and ages, nearly eternity, to undress Sherlock.

He doesn’t know what to do with everything he feels, the overwhelming weight of it all. It’s a brilliant conundrum, where to put hands and mouth, how to move to make Sherlock feel good, feel the very best he’s ever felt, because he deserves that. 

Sherlock’s thumbs hook into the thick waist of his trousers and settle, then tug, then wrangle. Sherlock makes a sound of abject frustration and tosses his head back, as he might at an inconclusive experimental result.

He’s so Sherlock.

John never wants this to end. 

Their kissing slows, mouths meeting the edge of jaws, collarbones, cheeks. There’s a little laugh from Sherlock when John dips to nose along behind his ear before licking the lobe into his mouth.

An “ah” gusts into his ear as Sherlock melts back into the bed. John files that away for later, too. 

Using Sherlock’s position to his advantage, John levers himself up to sitting and takes in Sherlock, rumpled and eager and sweetly overwhelmed. It’s unlike anything he could have begun to imagine, and he wishes for a mind like Sherlock’s, to etch it all, indelibly. 

Sherlock catches him gazing and presses himself up onto his elbows, brows perked in inquisition. “Hmm?” he hums an ask.

“Nothing, you’re…” John smiles at his own hesitation. “The best damn thing I’ve ever seen.”

Sherlock flushes, but says nothing, tips his chin up so John can drop another kiss on his mouth. Sherlock is pliant and open and it takes a moment for John to decide what he wants to do with his hands. 

He smooths back the folds of Sherlock’s trousers and settles his palm over the hardness beneath. Sherlock’s cock, trapped in fabric, twitches at the contact. “God yes,” he hisses, still elevated on his elbows, and his head falls back, the entire white column of Sherlock’s delicate throat on display.

John is drawn in instantly, settles his lips just under Sherlock’s ear and sucks gently. When Sherlock’s breath kicks out of him, John hums against his skin, “Mmmm, yeah?”

“Yes,” Sherlock growls, “of course.”

John’s tongue makes a path down his neck, teeth finding a trapezius and sinking in, just until he feels real resistance. Fingers find John’s hips and tug, fumble, press in between their bodies and Sherlock manages to fiddle the buttons of John’s flies open.

John chuckles into the sweetness of Sherlock’s skin, kisses under his chin, licks over his Adam’s apple and suckles there for a moment before pulling abruptly off. “Just a mo’,” he says breathlessly, and bounces back to the side of the bed, stripping himself of his socks. 

Sherlock joins him a moment later, quickly unlacing his loafers and tugging off his socks before shuffling back up the bed, trousers still loose at his hips, grabbing John’s bicep and giving a hearty tug, hurrying him along. 

“Jesus, give a man a minute!”

Sherlock twists, grunts and some of the bravado visibly drains from him, “Don’t want you… thinking yourself out of this.”

John laughs and glances down at the mess of his clothing, thinking nothing of Sherlock’s comment. 

But when Sherlock stills, John glances up at him, astonished and saddened to find apprehension in his gaze. 

“No,” John shakes his head, but when the lingering emotion doesn’t disappear from Sherlock’s eyes, he realizes that there are still lingering doubts, the ghost of a belief that this isn’t real, or can’t possibly mean what it does. “Please don’t think that…” He doesn’t continue, convinced Sherlock will understand, though Sherlock just lounges—posture much more rigid than before—and stares at him. 

For a moment, there’s a feeling of personal offense at Sherlock believing that John is capable of anything like that. John sorts through the reasoning in his mind, and discovers that he’s devastated, more than anything else, that Sherlock could feel like that. 

”No, Sherlock,” John climbs hastily onto the bed and shuffles over, tosses one knee over Sherlock so that he’s straddling Sherlock’s thighs. “Never. This has been... ” John sighs, palms pressed into Sherlock’s stomach, “God, you… I’ve wanted you so much. For so long. I…”

Fingertips curl gently into Sherlock’s skin. “I feel… so much. Sherlock, I… this is all I’ve wanted for, jesus. Forever.”

Head tipping, Sherlocks glances down at the space between their bodies, head drooping towards his chest. His entire demeanor changes, and John worries that he’s closing in on himself. 

“Hey,” John says, shaking his head brashly, taking Sherlock’s face between his hands and placing a quick, hard kiss on the suddenly downturned lips. “Stop. Don’t think that this is something it isn’t. This is us, yeah? You know us,” John reasons, and when some of the tension drains from his limbs, adds, “Where’s the man who was just grabbing my arse?”

Sherlock glares, but can’t sustain it and then he blushes furiously, shakes his head seemingly at himself, rousing himself from his momentary bout of insecurity and says, with a gust of a breath, “Right here.”

John’s mouth jumps in a delighted half smile and he bends down, touching Sherlock’s nose with his own.

“Get on with it, then, you deviant,” John says, smacking Sherlock’s chest lightly and takes Sherlock’s mouth again, is delighted when longer fingers curve around his arse. John’s fingers find the fine hair at Sherlock’s nape and stroke, ridges and whorls gliding over curls. 

He’s over Sherlock in a moment, straddling his hips and giving in, dragging his hardness against Sherlock’s, something that makes the entirety of his consciousness swim. Their kisses become breathy, and a little desperate. Sherlock is surprisingly vocal and raspy; there’s no ‘n’ on John’s name, just a slurred “Jah-” and Sherlock’s hands grasp at any available surface on John’s body.

He can’t help but laugh at Sherlock’s near-flailing. John struggles to his knees, tongue out and touching his bottom lip as he concentrates on getting Sherlock’s shirt unbuttoned, even as Sherlock continues to move and shift. 

It’s almost impossible to speak through the laughter that overtakes him suddenly, “Stop! Stop, you… maniac! If you don’t stop moving, I can’t get you naked!”

As soon as the words are out of John’s mouth, Sherlock rolls over and slithers out from under him, pops to his feet and begins divesting himself of his clothing with impressive speed. John just rolls back onto the bed as his laughter takes him, watching Sherlock’s impromptu striptease through the happy tears that settle along his lower eyelids. 

His chuckles peter out and then he just watches as Sherlock drapes his shirt over a chair, and then gets to work on his trousers. He feels numb, entirely taken, unable to think or move as Sherlock drops his trousers and is left standing in his boxer-briefs, clothing pooled at his feet.

It’s John’s turn to use his elbows as support. He knows how his voice will sound before he even opens his mouth, “Sherlock.” Filled with awe, slightly choked, John can think of nothing else to say. 

Sherlock waggles his eyebrows, but John doesn’t budge, just continues to stare up at him in wonder. 

“John?” Sherlock asks awkwardly, shifting his weight quickly from one foot to the other.

John sighs, feeling full, sweetly agitated by nerves, itchy to feel Sherlock. “C’mere,” he says very, very gently. 

Sherlock crawls onto the bed, long limbs supporting him as he hovers over John, swipes their noses together briefly and then kisses him, lowering himself to nestle into John’s side. 

Sherlock’s right hand tugs at John’s button-up and manages to pull it loose enough that his hand can slither beneath the material, warm palm slowly mapping the plane of John’s stomach. It feels delicious and indecent, more erogenous than he’s experienced before. Sherlock takes his time, pulling off to kiss at John’s jaw, his cheek, as his fingertips locate a nipple and gently scratch. 

John feels himself tighten, his entire body responding to the point of contact, and rolls his hips so that their erections press together. 

The breath strangles in his throat, sound blotted out for a moment as Sherlock rolls against him, alternating. It suddenly becomes too much and he licks into Sherlock’s mouth harshly before pulling away and puffing, “Get me out of these damned clothes, yeah?”

Sherlock’s face goes blank and then he barks a laugh, smothers another into John’s neck before pressing a hard, wet kiss there and pulling away. Together, with clumsy hands, John is worked out of his clothing.

Quickly, Sherlock slips out of his pants, leaving them where they land at his feet. 

John falls back against the bed with an “Oof!” when Sherlock gives him a little shove, and then Sherlock is advancing on him, scooting up the bed. John shifts back up the bed and is immediately blanketed. One large hand spreads across John’s right pec, and Sherlock makes no move, just stares down at John in something that John would consider unabashed awe if this wasn’t Sherlock Holmes. 

But this is Sherlock Holmes.

Suddenly self-conscious, John blushes, “What?”

“I --” Sherlock begins, before ducking his head and sucking in a quick breath. “This is surreal. I never thought I’d have you,” and it’s perhaps the first time John has heard Sherlock whisper, really whisper. The sentiment steals the breath from John’s lungs and fills him to the brim with a manic sort of need to prove to Sherlock, with his body, just how thoroughly he’s loved. 

Their bodies press together, on their sides; it’s awkward, but John finds Sherlock’s lips and sets a pace—slow, languid. Sherlock’s hands roam steadily over John’s skin, from the curve of his arse to his shoulder blades and John feels held, loved, and protected in a way he hadn’t even thought to consider.

It makes him emotional, and the insistent tug in the center of his chest threatens to derail the night’s proceeding. Sherlock senses it, and pulls away, his face still so close that warm breaths puff across John’s skin.

“What?”

John sucks in a loud breath, sniffles involuntarily. “I didn’t think I’d ever have you either.”

Sherlock’s face shows a range of emotions in a second, and John watches them all. It’s such a breathtaking thing, watching as Sherlock realises that they feel deeply the same about one another. 

“John,” Sherlock says, squeezing his eyes shut tight. “I… love you.”

“I love you too, I love you too,” John replies quickly, a few tears escaping as he manages to maneuver up onto his elbows and presses his forehead to Sherlock’s. “Jesus christ, I love you.”

It’s a frenzy then , John reaching between them and sliding their cocks together. The heat between their bodies isn’t enough to quell the friction and then he rolls away, stumbles out of bed and into the bathroom for the lubricant he always keeps in his overnight bag. When he returns, Sherlock is reclining on the bed, cock in hand, holding, not stroking.

“Oh my god,” John mutters as his stomach plummets, swoops in a lovely way.

“John,” is all Sherlock manages to say before John is climbing back onto the bed, inelegant in his haste. They nearly knock together, Sherlock levering up on his elbows and John crashing down, and it ends with them both tangled, John laughing into Sherlock’s chest. 

Sherlock boldly takes John in hand, thumb swiping the beads of moisture at the tip of his cock and the laughter dies abruptly in his throat. He fumbles with the bottle, smearing slick all over his hand; Sherlock smears his palm against John’s, and then wraps his hand around John’s length. 

“Like this?” Sherlock asks.

“However you like, really, anyway you like,” John rushes. “Just touch me, because,” and with a bit of maneuvering John manages to get his hand on Sherlock’s prick. Sherlock bucks so hard that their foreheads bump together and that has John laughing again, rolling onto his back as he lets go. It’s entirely inelegant, but perfect as well, and it shorts John’s brain momentarily. 

Turning onto his side, Sherlock levers himself up, resting his cheek on his palm. His upper hand reaches out and smooths over John’s prick where it rests against his belly. “Can we get it together, hmm?” Sherlock hums, and begins jerking John lazily.

“Can try,” John says on an inhale and walks his fingers across the duvet flicks at the nipple he can reach. Sherlock’s hand stutters and then resumes. 

John’s neck cranes and he manages to smear the side of his mouth again Sherlock’s.

The quiet sound of slick skin on skin and John’s erratic breathing resonate in the still of the room. John realises hazily that they’ve left the curtains open and both bedside lamps are on; they hadn’t even thought to lock up, to create an atmosphere. Too hurried, they hadn’t even bothered to strip the bed of the mound of decorative pillows.

But none of that matters a bit to John Watson, because Sherlock is alternating his strokes, rubbing the head of his prick on every downstroke. A small sound escapes him, something strangled and desperate, and then his mouth is reaching blindly for Sherlock’s as his body goes taut, pleasure threatening to overwhelm him. 

“Yes John,” Sherlock says, into his mouth, and twists his wrist; John groans as though in pain, his head tipping back from the sheer pleasure of it all. Sherlock touching him with such care, he finds he can’t breathe. The words they’d spoken just short minutes ago knocking him over the head all over again. 

Love.

This is love.

“Oh god,” his eyes screw up tightly, and he doesn’t know how to tell Sherlock everything that he feels in the moment, how completely large and beyond his body he is. 

“Yes, John,” Sherlock breathes again, more urgently, and that sets him off. The force of it startles him, and his hips buck twice and he’s coming, warmth spreading across Sherlock’s wrist and hand, John’s own stomach. White light fizzles behind his closed eyelids and he bears down, grits his teeth as the orgasm takes his body, thrashing it. 

Wrung out from the inside, the tremors wrack through him at an alarming intensity; for a brief moment a buzzing thought that he might pass out crosses his mind. He twitches hard, feels almost as though he might come again and moans pitifully at the overstimulation.

Sherlock swipes the pad of his thumb over the slit of John’s prick and John bucks, helpless to the too-bright sensations. Sherlock stills, presses lingering kisses to his temple and soothes him back to coherence. 

John takes a moment to gather himself back together, and flicks his eyes open on a satisfied sigh to find Sherlock gazing down at him. He’s a bit surprised to find that the tips of Sherlock’s sticky fingers are in his hair, stroking delicately, and he doesn’t mind one bit. John’s mouth curves into a half smile, and he can tell from how it feels on his face, he must look absolutely goofy.

Sherlock chuckles once and then dips, leaving a long, lingering kiss on his lips.

“Alright?” he asks, voice deep and quiet.

“‘Course,” John’s hands settle on his stomach before thinking better of it; his left hand reaches over to clasp Sherlock, high up on his thigh. “You ‘right?”

“Mmmm,” Sherlock hums, touching John’s hand where it rest against him, feather light. They rest for a moment, stroking and breathing and settling. John wants to say everything that’s fluttering through his head, but it’s so disjointed that he thinks better of it, knows he’ll tell it all in time. 

Sherlock sighs and John watches as he runs two fingers up the length of his cock. Transfixed, John finds he can’t move, frozen by the slow intimacy of watching Sherlock touch himself. 

Feeling Sherlock’s gaze, John glances up into heavy-lidded eyes, holds contact while Sherlock strokes, ghosting his fingers along flesh until John can’t take it anymore.

Struggling with his body, John manages to turn onto his left side, curling into Sherlock, nuzzling his nose in the heat of Sherlock’s neck for a moment. He can hear Sherlock’s breath, hear him swallow, and when he takes Sherlock’s cock in hand, he feels Sherlock’s gasp against his cheek. 

A light stroke, and then John turns swiftly, snatches up the bottle of slick and prepares his hand before dipping back in. He marvels at the heft of him, at the pure heat, at the level of trust Sherlock has in him, to allow him to do this. It feels marvelous, like a necessary thing, his hand on Sherlock’s cock. How he’s made it this long in life not having known the exquisite slide and feel of him so intimately is very much a crime.

 

He maneuvers up the bed so that he’s level with Sherlock, and presses his lips to Sherlock’s cheek, just by his ear. “You feel marvelous,” he whispers and Sherlock answers in a breathy laugh, his hips rising to meet John on the downstroke. Every movement feels carefully planned, and entirely spontaneous, John taking himself by surprise.

John pulls away, down, takes Sherlock’s bollocks carefully in hand and smooths over them, scratching ever-so lightly against the furred skin. 

Sherlock hisses and then shakes his head, emits a startled “Ah!”

“Okay?” John checks, resuming the gentle strokes there, and when Sherlock nods sluggishly, John repeats the gesture, even more gentle.

“Oh jesus,” comes Sherlock’s tortured expletive and John smiles; he’s so completely, full-to-the-brim with happiness, knowing that he’s making Sherlock feel good. Knowing that he’s making Sherlock feel as overcome with pleasure as Sherlock had managed with him.

Leaning in, John licks up the side of Sherlock’s neck, hastens his strokes, angles so that their bodies are pressed more fully together. Sweat makes the movements easier, and John finds himself panting along with Sherlock, not from exertion, but from arousal. 

Sherlock’s hips stutter, as he makes a sound that’s half-groan and half-growl. “John, I’m…”

“Yes,” John gasps, suddenly completely attentive, watching as Sherlock’s lithe body stretches taught. 

Sherlock comes with his head tilted back and mouth open in a silent scream. It’s almost violent, the snapping of his body, as he nearly sits up with the force of his orgasm, come striping up his chest, to his own neck and chin. John watches, transfixed, as Sherlock edges away, falls back, greedily sucks in a few gulps of air. Only when he stills completely does John move his hand away.

Their breaths slow and even out, and they both find themselves on their backs, propped up by the abundant bedding. John’s hand slides over, and rests once more atop Sherlock’s thigh. They’re sticky and smell exceedingly of sex, but John doesn’t care; he feels as though he’s finally found rest after wandering aimlessly for years. The lethargy that sinks into his bones is so welcome that he finds himself drifting, Sherlock still and warm beside him.

He comes to some time later, as he hears the shower turn on. All of the lamps in the room are out, but the buttery light peeking through the partially-closed bathroom door catches Sherlock’s frame, throwing him into chiaroscuro. 

“Hey,” John says groggily from the bed, and Sherlock turns, expression soft and unguarded. John’s heart fills to the brim and bursts open in his chest. 

“Hello,” Sherlock returns, the word timid.

John is out of bed in a second, naked and rounding the bed to meet him. For a moment, they simply stand in front of one another, before John wraps his hand around Sherlock’s neck and brings him in for a kiss. “That was… good, yeah?”

Sherlock’s left cheek jumps in a bashful smile. “Yes, it was… good.”

“Great, I might call it,” John says, mouth turned into a mock frown.

Sherlock licks his lips, allowing his head to drop, chin to chest, “It was.”

John nods, and waits a beat. “What’s all this then?”

Sherlock’s gaze lifts to his, watery and unsure. “I... “ he sighs, draws his hands down over his face. “I am feeling… everything. I didn’t want to wake you, but it feels as though,” he sighs again, “My chest is going to burst open.”

John’s palm presses into the naked skin over Sherlock’s heart, rests there. “It was a lot.”

“I love you, John,” comes Sherlock’s admission, anguished this time. “I didn’t… know it would feel like this.”

John hums, and gathers Sherlock in close, wrapping his arms tightly around. 

“Do you remember,” John begins, voice low, “the day after we met. I came to the flat to give it a look and thought it was just, chaos.” He laughs to himself and runs his lips against Sherlock’s shoulder. “And all of a sudden, you were whirling around, tossing things in boxes, trying to tidy. I think that’s when I… when it all started.”

Sherlock nods slowly as John continues. “You were… lonely. And even after a day, one night, seeing you being… brilliant, I thought you were untouchable, and cold and… then I realised that morning, we were the same. Looking for something to… fill us up.”

John pulls back to look at Sherlock’s face. “S’why you feel like you’re going to burst. It’s why I feel the same… you’ve… filled me up.”

“That’s remarkably saccharine,” Sherlock mumbles to the top of John’s head. 

“Hmmm,” John chuckles. “S’what happens when you’re in love, I’m pretty sure. Have to deal with all of this sentiment business.”

There’s silence, as Sherlock holds him, breathes with him, and John allows his eyes to fall closed. The moment washes over him, and he feels as though his entire chest expands to receive every sensation he’s feeling in the moment. John imagines that if he tries hard enough, he could feel each individual ridge and whorl of Sherlock’s fingerprints, burning into his body. 

He feels Sherlock sigh against him, every trace of tension melting away. John realizes that it may take some time for Sherlock to fully understand the varying intricacies of his own heart, and that it’s best not to overwhelm him, especially after an evening of laden with emotional revelations. “Now, unless you fancy getting glued together by all of this spunk, I suggest we wash up.”

Sherlock tries to hold back a smile, but fails, “Idiot.”

John pets blindly at the back of Sherlock’s head, twice, before stepping away. “Shower?”

“Together?”

“Mmm, yeah, have you ever?” John asks, dipping his hand into the spray to test the temperature. 

Sherlock’s silence is his answer.

“Can be quite nice,” John says, moving to snatch up a bottle of hotel-offered shower gel. “Intimate.”

Sherlock is stepping past him, into the small cubicle of the shower. He turns back, the water sluicing over his back, “Show me.”

John takes a breath and steps forward, no hesitation, and enters the dimly-lit space; there’s not much room, but it’s not a bother, John sliding around Sherlock’s body to bump him out of the spray and Sherlock moves back, mock-indignant.

Once fully good and wet, John uncaps the small hotel bottle and squeezes a bit of the citrus-scented gel into his hands. “Now, c’mere.”

Sherlock’s chin drops to his chest and he shuffles the scant distance to John’s outstretched hands. The begin atop his shoulders, working the slippery soap into a lather, and then trail down his arms. John spends a good amount of time massaging Sherlock’s fingers before he diverts back up and cleans his neck. 

Sherlock’s chest is flushed red, from John’s hands, and the shower, and John doesn’t linger there long, though vows silently to himself to lavish some attention in the very near future on the toned expanse of skin. His thumb swipes a nipple and Sherlock sighs, arching gently into the touch. 

“Later,” John vows quietly, and presses against Sherlock, spurring him to turn around. “Let me know if…” And he trails off, pouring a bit more soap into his hands before he starts in on Sherlock’s back. Shoulders, spine, coccyx, John pauses before moving onto Sherlock’s arse. Smoothing both palms around the heft of his glutes.

Leaning in, John whispers over the din of the falling water, “Your arse is perfect.”

“I know,” Sherlock drawls, smugly.

“Pompous,” John returns and then hunches down to trail his fingers along the backs of Sherlock’s thighs and calves. The front of him is last, and John only gives him a perfunctory wash around his pelvis, leaving the more intensive cleansing up to Sherlock.

John places an open-mouthed kiss at the base of Sherlock’s neck and then steps out of the shower, “I’ll get you your fancy-arse hair products,” he says and when he turns back with them in hand, Sherlock’s eyes are closed and he’s slumped against the wall.

Stepping back in, John leans the bottles carefully on the little ledge and takes Sherlock’s hips in his hands. “Alright?”

“Hmmm,” Sherlock hums, and peeks an eye open. The depth there is stunning, and John holds his breath for it. “Will you give me a moment, I’m trying to commit this all to memory.”

“Mind palace?” John chuckles, running a finger slowly over Sherlock’s right shoulder. “Should I be flattered?” and after a nod, leaves Sherlock to it, cleaning himself up in the interim. When he’s through, Sherlock is still silent and motionless, and so John takes a risk, indulges in something he’s often thought of and takes it upon himself to shampoo and condition Sherlock’s hair.

It’s so incredibly intimate and John quietly relishes in it, dragging his blunt nails against Sherlock’s scalp, as Sherlock leans unbidden into his touch. Sherlock continues to catalogue, his eyes moving behind closed lids as John cleans him. 

He’s never done this before, never partaken in anything so careful and sweet with someone, that John finds himself going back, conditioning Sherlock’s hair again, just so that the moment draws perfect and taut. 

When Sherlock’s eyes peek open once more, he smiles. “Go, get in bed,” John urges quietly, cupping Sherlock’s face briefly. After a cocked brow, John explains, “You’re about to fall over. Let me rinse and I’ll be in.”

Sherlock is silent for a moment before his head dips in acknowledgment. “Don’t be long.”

“I won’t,” John promises, and watches as Sherlock steps out of the shower and wraps himself in a bath sheet. 

He spends the next long moments absent-mindedly cleaning his body, while his mind is wrapped up in the intensity of the evening. Each and every feeling he’d experienced rushed back into the forefront of his mind, assailing his consciousness. He leans a forearm against the glass and sucks in a deep breath, keeping the panic at bay.

He feels so much, and he has no idea at all how to do this.

He presses his forehead against the wet pane and tries to assure himself that between the two of them, they’ll figure this out. They’ve weathered death and life and all of the dark, twisted bits in between. They’ve changed, together, and separately, and despite it all, they’ve managed to find their way back to one another.

Sex changes things, but fundamentally, John knows, it’s not going to alter much about their relationship at all. This had been something that had been hovering just over the horizon for so long and it feels as though the most natural step he’s ever taken, like waking up or wading in. He tells himself this once, and again, and finally turns and shuts off the shower. 

Wrapping himself in a towel, he glances briefly at his reflection–he looks the exact same as he always does–and shuts the light. 

Sherlock is already in bed, a sweet curve of a half-moon beneath the blankets. Rounding the bed, John uses his towel to quickly dry his hair and then tosses it over a chair, climbing in with Sherlock completely nude. 

Sherlock watches him settle himself and once he’s got his pillow punched into near-perfect softness, John stills. 

They’re staring at one another in the dim light of the pre-dawn. 

“John,” Sherlock begins, voice low, words impeded somewhat by the duvet he has tucked up to just beneath his nose.

John’s hand slithers across the bed, beneath the blankets and find Sherlock’s wrist, “Hm?”

“We need to interview the McCann widow tomorrow,” Sherlock says, voice completely level and serious. 

And John laughs, Sherlock shattering every fear he’d had about things being awkward, or things changing drastically, throwing them off kilter. “Yeah, okay. Maybe a bit of a lie-in first?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Fine.” 

Sherlock settles beneath the blankets, and allows his eyes to fall closed and John watches Sherlock relax, watches as his body sinks into its preferred sleeping arrangement. A fuzzy sort of pride overtakes John as he gazes upon the man he loves, resting. Trusting him to be near while he’s at rest. 

It’s remarkable, that mere hours previous, he’d been warring with his feelings of affection for Sherlock. Now, sated and sleepy, he has the enormous privilege of watching Sherlock in slumber.

He’s so swept up in his sweet thoughts that it startles him mightily when Sherlock’s right eye pops open. “John, stop watching me sleep.”

“I’m not,” John says, blushing, “because you’re not sleeping.”

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock struggles over onto his other side, tossing a humor-laced, “You’re impossible,” over his shoulder.

John chuckles silently, shifting beneath the covers, brashly spooning up behind Sherlock. Sherlock shimmies back, their bodies curving as comfortably together as they can manage. John hums contentedly and it’s only a moment before he’s drifting, ignoring the fluttering thoughts that attempt to press into his consciousness, all the what ifs. 

Tomorrow is a new day, one that will now be the demarcation of the time between before and after he and Sherlock finally made love; they’ll interview a suspect, they’ll solve the case (God willing) and they’ll return to their life, together.

John dots one last kiss on Sherlock’s shoulder before he’s being tugged insistently towards sleep, thrilled with the prospect of waking up beside him tomorrow, telling him all of the things he’s wanted to tell him for years and years.

It won’t be perfect—John knows this—but it will be them, and that will be enough.


End file.
